


The Fear of Falling Apart

by Erinicus



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Natasha Romanov, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF Phil Coulson, Beta Phil Coulson, Body Modification, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff and Angst, Human Disaster Clint Barton, I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Omega Clint Barton, Omega Verse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-11-01 12:27:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17867273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erinicus/pseuds/Erinicus
Summary: It wasn't supposed to be like this. He bore these scars, denied who he was. He was of his own making, he did what he wanted. He ate pizza, shot arrows, and crawled through vents. Clint Barton was strong because he decided to be. He would outrun this secret.Or.That one time Phil found out Clint owned far too many throw pillows.





	The Fear of Falling Apart

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, I decided to rewrite the beginning of this fic so that I would be happier with it and have an easier time building off of the idea that won't leave me alone. Thank you so much guys for your support! You make me feel brave enough to share more :) ILYSM

The rich aroma of coffee permeating the air greeted Clint as he roused. He fought the dense fog of sedatives and painkillers, clawing his way into enough consciousness to open his eyes. They were swollen and blurry, unsurprising. But what was surprising was the rough outline of his handler, just off to his side.

Phil was tapping away at his no doubt insurmountable paperwork following the disaster of an op they had just completed. Clint caught the vague shape of the Beta’s arm extending to bring the source of the smell to his lips, eyes never leaving the illuminated screen of his laptop.

At the practiced movement of beverage to mouth, Clint’s own tongue protested, his mouth thick and cotton-dry, his lips residually bruised and puffy from what had most likely been an intubation tube. He shifted his head slightly on the flat medical bed, or rather he tried to, but only managed the smallest of movements, a thick neck brace halting almost all of his attempt at shifting.

Phil’s eyes shot up from the screen he had been frowning at, Clint’s tiny shift in his periphery alerting him to the archer waking. He had gently slipped one of the archer’s hearing aids into his right ear once he had been stable enough for the life-supporting instruments to be removed a few hours ago as a courtesy in the event that Clint had woken up in a panic while they were still en route back to S.H.I.E.L.D..

“Easy Clint, you’re alright. Do you remember where we are?”

“In Syria-sly big trouble” Clint rasped quietly, his eyelids fluttering closed as he wheezed out a soft cough.

Phil sighed and set his mug and computer to the side, standing and moving toward the bed, eyes scanning the swaths of bandages and monitor wires disappearing under the thick white blankets. His eyes drifted up to study the grimace on Clint’s bruised face. “I’m going to go get one of the nurses, please try to refrain from harming yourself further in my absence.”

“No promises, sir” Clint managed a half grin as Phil disappeared through the door of what Clint guessed was a helicarrier med bay room. Clint slowly flexed and shifted his body and extremities, sighing with relief that he could feel and move everything. The neck brace and shot a thread of fear through him that he had sustained a spinal injury.

Normally he would have attempted to shuffle his way out of the bed and escape Medical as quickly as possible. Phil’s vigilant presence meant that Clint had sustained serious enough injuries that his typical antics would not be acceptable. The distinct lack of any pain paired with the foggy lull of senses indicated the presence of incredibly strong painkillers. It was rare for the field doctors to administer such strong drugs, especially given the warzone they were currently in.

His Handler and a grim-faced brunette that carried a sterile scent filed into the room a moment later, most likely wearing scent blockers for the comfort of her patients. The nurse’s face morphing into a gentle comforting set when her hazel eyes met Clint’s. She moved to his bedside with measured efficiency, pulling 4 syringes from her scrub pocket. Clint groaned as she picked up his IV line, “I’m fine, honestly. I’d rather be awake if it’s all the same to you.”

“Don’t worry Agent Barton, we’ll keep you comfortable until we get back home.”

“I’m not worr-“

“You fell off a building Agent Barton, during a firestorm. You went into shock before we were able to recover you, and flat-lined three times between the field and our current position. Go back to sleep.” Phil quipped as the nurse pushed the sedatives, anti-inflammatories, and additional painkillers through his veins.

“I’m tellin’ Tasssha” Clint rasped, the room growing darker and beginning to spin.

“Agent Romanov will be pleased to receive your complaints after we arrive back on base, I’m sure” Phil sighed as he took up his bedside post next to the sleeping marksman. He retrieved his laptop and continued working through the report. The operation had gone to shit so rapidly that he hadn’t been able to alert Clint before the explosives had ripped apart a 10-block radius including the archer’s perch. It had been a miracle that they had been able to locate and retrieve successfully. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of their unit. The three Alpha agents had perished in the inferno along with hundreds of civilians.

Phil took a long draw from his mug of cooling coffee and glanced back over to Clint’s face, lax in a medicated sleep. His gaze shifted down to the place the neck brace met his clavicles. Phil had immediately filed away in his memory the fine white lines framing the sides of Clint’s neck when he had been brought in to the emergency bay of the helicarrier, the medical officials cutting off the high-necked leather outfit the archer had been wearing and scurrying around attempting to stabilize the downed agent.

Phil knew at least the basic history of all of the assets under him. He knew their strengths, weaknesses, pasts, who they worked well with, who not to send out on ops together. Their designations were never in question. Only Alphas had the strength, agility, and aggression needed to succeed as S.H.I.E.L.D. field agents. Betas didn’t have the aggression and muscle mass, a large reason that Phil himself had taken up a position as a Handler. Every once in a while, a Beta would specialize with high enough proficiency to work in the field. However, such instances were incredibly rare.

Clint had keen senses and a mind for strategy that saw many more successes than failures in the field.

Phil’s brow creased as he scored his memory, trying to find any memory of a hint at Clint’s designation. He was average height, broad-shouldered and well-muscled from the conditioning and training that filled most of his time. He was witty, athletic, fiercely defiant. It was more often than not that Clint was picking fights with Handlers and senior agents because he had a better idea for an op, callously pointing out the idiocy of the Alphas he worked with. He carried no discernable scent, but most agents used scent blocking soaps and sprays.

The thick flesh-colored latex collars worn by all designations outside of their homes helped block pheromones, and it seemed that Clint wore his with the sole intent of hiding what was a highly illegal body modification.

 The scars had appeared old, flat and nearly invisible with age.

It didn’t make sense. Scents were integral to social engagement, attracting mates, settling disputes, communication, and heat interactions between Mates. Surely Clint wouldn’t choose to stunt himself in such a way.

He would need to do some serious digging.

-x-

 

Clint awoke to soft diffused light and the quiet singing of cellos. His eyes were less puffy and more inclined to open when he shifted slightly, noting the softer neck brace, and the heavy casts weighing both of his arms down, and a smile tugged at his lips. Back at base then, if he was no longer in a tiny helicarrier ICU room. That and his visitor had done him the kindness of replacing the bulky standard hospital aid he had woken up within transit with his preferred low profile hearing-aids.

“Acute cervical ligament laxity, bilateral ulnar and radial shaft fractures, 4 bruised ribs, and a shattered ankle” the red-haired Alpha settled into the chair next to his bed rattled off, her eyes never shifting from the pile of wool and knitting needles she was wrestling with.

“Hey, that’s not too bad. I’ve come back with worse Tasha” Clint attempted to assuage, but his fellow assassin lowered her tangled mess of a project as she shot him an unimpressed look.

“It was bad enough that you’ve been pulled from the active duty rosters for the next 6 months. All you’ve got to look forward to in physio and resting” Natasha quipped back, her gaze drifting back down as she continued her battle with her knitting.

He groaned and shut his eyes.

“Don’t forget our vacation in four weeks Clint, I’m looking forward to Malibu.”

“You are vicious.”

“I’ve already picked out my swimsuits for the pool. I’m sure all that plaster and bruising will get you some pity drinks darling”

“I hate you” Clint grimaced, allowing the lull of medication pull him back down into sleep.

-x-

Phil’s eyes glared at the files pulled up on his computer. As was typical with most of the agents that were brought in to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. from less than prestigious sources, Agent Barton’s files were full of redaction and medical blocks.

Glancing at his other screen, he scanned all of the time-off request logs from the archer. There were lots of inconsistencies, as was typical, however, when he had paired the logs with Agent Romanov’s, there was a consistent four-day span of downtime twice a year for the pair.

Curious.

The next scheduled time off for the pair had been scheduled five and a half months ago. Perhaps he would have to do an out the clock investigation if he was going to get down to the bottom of whatever Clint had been hiding from his Handler.

-x-

Clint inhaled heavy as he stuffed his face into the freshly scented sheets of his nest. The bulky casts on both of his forearms causing him trouble as he tried to burrow them in and around the various pillows, stuffed animals and heavy throw blankets.

Natasha had taped his ribs as tight as she dared, wanting him to endure as little pain as possible as he rolled and wriggled in the nest he had labored on constructing for the past two days. In her opinion, the disaster of blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and fluffy bathrobes could have been tossed onto his bed haphazardly and the result would have been the same.

She had scented the nest for him before she had headed out for work that morning. She only had conditioning training, so she would be back well before he was due to start his heat that evening.

It had been strange for, the first time she had helped the archer through one of his heats. What should have been an overwhelming wash of pheromones and instinct had been clinical.

Clint had explained to her when he had asked her for assistance that all of his scent glands had been removed when he had presented at twelve years old. That it would strange. He felt the same hormonally based desires to be mated and be provided a safe haven for the heat that any other Omega felt- But with the obvious lack of cloying scents and pheromones.Because of this it was likely she wouldn’t descend into rut during the heats. And so, twice a year when he had to take a break from the suppressants that allowed him to disguise his unwanted second gender, Natasha would stay in his nest, scent marking the bedding to ease his discomfort. She would massage his tightly wound muscles, and make sure he didn’t dehydrate.

Soft shuffling noises in the front of his apartment should have alerted him to an intruder if he had been wearing his hearing aids, but the Omega was too caught up in the early stirrings of heat to remember to replace them when he had awoken that morning and was too far gone to notice the familiar sandalwood scent that drifted toward him over the sharp notes of eucalyptus and citron that Natasha had left behind for him.

If he had, he would have seen his Handler staring blankly at him through his open bedroom door. He would have seen the realization flicker to live in deep mahogany eyes that drifted from his heavy bandaged upper body down over the rounded curve of his hips, down to his slick covered thighs, gushes of the viscous fluid pouring from his soft pink entrance as he rolled around in the piles of tasseled throw piles and Sherpa.

Phil blinked. Clint Barton. Marksman, assassin, smart-mouthed, vent-crawling thorn in his side, was an Omega. In heat. This was going to be a logistical nightmare.


End file.
